Declan caught up, his limp worse now. “Let me talk,” he whispered. “If I can get close, maybe—”
“Not a chance,” Scar said. “They’re not the listening type.”
The pain returned, sharp and bright. I looked at my right hand; it still gripped the dagger, blood dried black on the handle. My wrist was a mass of crust and ruin. I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore.
Celeste leaned in. “You need to move, Sully. This is it.”
I nodded. “Do it.”
Scarlette stepped forward. She loved her magic. She touched my cheek. Her hand was cool, but the air around her buzzed. “I’ll make it quick.”
She walked to the bend, sucked a breath, and muttered a word. The world shivered, like a guitar string pulled tight then plucked. The air filled with a cold, blue shimmer. For a second, I saw nothing—but the guards up ahead saw everything. Their heads snapped up, eyes wide, muskets up and aiming at nothing.
Scarlette stepped into view, hands raised. She chanted, voice rising, and the shimmer coalesced—shadows of men, dozens, all armed, all charging down the tunnel. The guards panicked, fired their guns, and the roar was deafening. The lead balls ripped through smoke and illusion, hit nothing. The blue ghosts kept coming.
The guards turned and ran, screaming for help, boots splashing and tripping over each other.
“Move,” Scar said, and we did.
We ran, me half-carried by Moab, Celeste with her hand pressed to my side, Scarlette stumbling but still moving. We reached the guard post; empty, save for the smell of powder and piss. Scar snatched up two muskets and handed one to Moab. “Take it,” he said. “You’ll need it.”
Moab grinned, checked the load, then pointed ahead. “Let’s get out.”
I tried to walk on my own, made it three steps, then nearly went down. Moab caught me, hoisted my arm over his shoulders.
“You don’t get to die, brother,” he said. “Not today.”
My vision blurred. “You sound like my mother.”
He laughed, but his eyes were wet. “Then listen for once.”
Celeste’s hand shook as she kept the pressure. “He needs a doctor,” she said to Declan.
Declan shrugged. “None worth a damn this side of the Shannon.”
I staggered on, every step white-hot agony. The world narrowed to the tunnel, the boots, the thump of my heart in my ears.
I thought of Catherine. The way she smiled when I tried to flirt. The way her hands always smelled of soap and yeast, the little scar near her wrist where she cut herself on a bread knife. I thought of the first time she kissed me—no warning, no permission, just lips and heat and the smell of summer.
She was the only real thing I’d ever known.
Moab whispered, “Don’t think about the pain. Think about her.”
I did. Every step, I pictured Catherine—her face when she saw me come back from the dead, the tilt of her head when she laughed, the way she made every room warmer by walking into it. I let it burn in me, gave the pain a name and a reason.
Scarlette’s illusion faded, the blue ghosts gone. “That’s all I’ve got,” she gasped.
“We’re close,” Scar said. “One more bend, and we’re in the open.”
The tunnel widened, the ceiling arched, and I saw moonlight—real, not torch-flame, but silver and clean, spilling down through an old storm grate.
I limped toward it, the others close behind. My legs shook, every muscle ready to quit.
But I thought of Catherine.
If I died here, I’d die moving toward her.
Moab boosted me up to the grate. Scar climbed after, then Celeste, Declan, and Scarlette last. We emerged into the castle’s rear yard—open, wild, chaos everywhere. Muskets fired, cannons boomed, the sky alive with sparks.